The Winding Road
by Annalore
Summary: It started with a simple invitation, but ended up turning into something a lot more complicated than that. Summer 2012. Punk/Cena, slash.
1. Tampa - Day One

**Tampa, Florida  
Day One: Tuesday**

The streets of Tampa are hot and crowded as I navigate through them. The air conditioning in the piece-of-crap rental car struggles to keep up, but ultimately fails, blowing out air that's warm at best into a hot, muggy interior.

"I fucking hate this place," Punk says venomously from the passenger seat at my side, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the windshield. It's the first thing he's said in over an hour. He's become progressively quieter, yet surlier at the same time, on the drive down from Jacksonville.

It's doesn't get much better when we get to my house. The disdain never leaves his eyes as we pull into the driveway, probably too long by his standards, make our way through the garage which houses part of my car collection, and into the house itself, which is really more of a mansion.

The day continues that way, from the den – _you have shitty taste in music, you know_ – to the kitchen – _don't you keep anything edible in here?_ – to the fenced in back yard – _is this your home, or a prison?_ I do the only thing I know how to do. I ignore him and wait for the mood to pass. If there's one constant in my world right now, it's my inability to understand him. I invited him and he accepted, but now that he's here, he's acting like he'd rather be anywhere else.

After long hours of pretending he's being nothing but polite, of letting him verbally tear my home and my life to shreds, it's finally night. I excuse myself to carry our bags upstairs, but he follows me anyway, into my room. I expect him to say something – about the king sized bed, which is just a bit on the ostentatious side, or the color of the sheets, the paint on the walls, anything – but he says nothing. He just leans against the door jamb and stares, his hands stuffed into his pockets, jaw clenched.

He looks so miserable, I sigh and drop the pretense. "Listen, if you really hate it that much, you don't have to stay."

For a second, he looks even more upset, almost angry. Then shakes his head, slowly. "That's okay. You're here."

He attempt a smile. It misses the mark, but it reassures me enough that I move into his personal space and go for a kiss. He stops me with a hand placed in the center of my chest. "Come on, let's go for a drive," he says with a jerk of his head in the general direction of the garage which brooks no disagreement.

* * *

It's dark, but the air is still warm and thick with humidity. The night smells like flowers and citrus as we cruise down the street in an orange muscle car with the top down, hip hop playing over the speaker system. With my car and his tattoos, we look like nothing so much as gang bangers on the prowl, but he doesn't seem to mind it, any of it, as he leans back in the leather seat, eyes half closed.

I drive around for a while, through residential neighborhoods, night life hot spots, bursting with music and voices even on a weekday night, and eventually out of the city. We lose the radio, and I turn it off to quiet the hissing static.

I pull off onto a dirt road and park, and we sit in silence, alone in the dark. It's wild out here, alive with the sounds of bugs and animals. It seems almost impossible that we could be in a city of hundreds of thousands within minutes.

He exhales into the quiet and I turn my head to look at him. "Sorry about…" he says with a grimace and a tilt of his head, indicating where we'd come from, the past.

"It's fine," I tell him. I feel incapable of saying anything else, and I'm sure that's something about me that he knows, that he counts on.

"I've never done this before," he says after we've sat in silence for a while longer.

"Which part?" I have to ask, despite having a clear suspicion. I think of the distance he tends to keep between us, even as we drift closer. The earnestness with which he flirts and the reluctance with which he kisses.

"I'm not talking about riding in this death trap you call a car," he starts, half turning in his seat. Then he stops, and with visible effort, reigns his temper in. He doesn't manage to reach the level of calm he'd had before we started talking, but it's passable. "Any of it," he says. "With a man, anyway." He shrugs, a gesture that looks oddly helpless.

I nod. No use in pretending surprise or offering sympathy that I know he isn't looking for. Instead, I offer him a way out for the second time that night. "If you don't want to do this, we can keep things friendly. Just hang out."

He takes a while to answer, like he's thinking it over. "No," he says finally. "I do want to. I just… I just thought it would be easier, you know?"

He looks at me self-consciously, and it seems to me that he doesn't just mean the sex. As long as I've known him, he's been closed off, private. The relationships I've seen him have haven't worked out, no hard feelings, or so I'm told, and it's so hard to get a bead on whether it phases him or not.

"All I'm asking for is a chance to spend time with you," I say.

He shakes his head. "You'll want more." He pauses, steels himself for what he's about to say next. "And so will I. But that's okay, I knew that going in."

He's turned back forward in his seat and he's talking to the night air as much as me. I look out the windshield along with him and watch the headlights of a car pass in the distance, too far away to hear. I like to tell myself I'm not looking for a lot these days, but maybe it's just that I don't expect it, so I'm trying convince myself I don't want it, that I'd prefer something uncomplicated, uninvolved.

Ten minutes, twenty, pass, as we sit in silence. I turn to him. "You wanna go get ice cream?" I ask.

I'm not sure where it comes from, and Punk gives me the most incredulous look. For a second, I'm worried he's about to hit me, but then he laughs.

"Sure, why not," he says with a shake of his head.

* * *

Finding a place to buy vegan ice cream on a summer night in Tampa is harder than I thought it would be, but I manage it eventually. Things are a lot less tense between us as we lean against the hood of the car eating our cones.

"You know, I actually never have ridden in one of these before," he says in a bemused tone, tapping his fingers against the car for emphasis.

"And what do you think?" I ask, angling my body towards his.

"Not half bad." He trails his hand across the hood, and I watch its progress, fascinated. "Of course, I haven't really seen what it can do yet."

His tone is so deadpan, so matter-of-fact, that I have to look up to check his expression. He's looking away in a manner that almost manages not to seem deliberate, so I know we're on the same page. My pulse quickens just a bit.

We're parked on a deserted side street, and I'm confident there are no prying eyes watching us as I sidle closer to him. "Want me to take you drag racing?" I ask, in what I hope is an equally casual tone.

He gives me an appraising look, and just when I'm sure he's going to start laughing, he reaches for me. His mouth tastes cold and sweet and not a whole hell of a lot like ice cream otherwise, but I can't help wanting more.

"Mmm… definitely not vegan," he murmurs against my lips with almost orgasmic pleasure. He leans in and licks the now dripping cone in my hand and I get a good view of his tongue doing sinful things. I groan and try to stop my mind from going places I know it shouldn't. He kisses me again, and this time it's most definitely not vegan.

We separate, and for a moment just breathe in the same air. I move to pull him back in, but he backs away, reinstates the couple of inches distance between us. "What were you saying?" he asks as if we were still flirting, his attention focused on his dessert. His overly innocent tone is strained.

"Drag racing," I repeat, a little dumbly, trying to figure out exactly what just happened.

He nods, but instead of responding, looks like he's at a loss. He's quiet for a while as he finishes his cone. I do the same, even though I'm no longer really interested in it.

"I think…" he starts. I turn to pay attention and he pauses for a second. "I think we're probably better off with slow and steady. For now."

There is a part of me that's disappointed, but it's a small part. I'm ashamed that it's there at all, but it does tell me how much I want from him. The ease with which I push it away tells me even more.

"Okay," I agree.

"Okay?" he asks. He sounds both surprised and doubtful, and it kills me to think that someone made him this way, made him think that it's better to be a jackass than to tease, convinced him that I'd put up with one, but not the other.

"Yeah. I don't mind taking the time to enjoy the ride." I smile and bump his shoulder with mine, trying for a little levity.

If it comes off corny, he lets it pass. "Sometimes I wish you would argue with me," he says with a sigh.

"Sometimes, I do," I remind him.

And I do sometimes, but other times I just can't. Maybe it's just what he calls my pathological need to be nice, or maybe it's because I can see that he needs someone he can't alienate. He needs someone who will stick, and more and more, I want that someone to be me.

"I'm glad, though," he continues as if I haven't said anything. "I'm glad that you don't."

I breathe out slowly. This is the endless complexity I'm stepping into, in a nutshell. He wants to be with me, or he wants to push me away. He won't ask for more, but he won't settle for less, either. He's bold and provocative, and he's insecure and afraid. And I love it, I love the maddening uncertainty of being with him, and I hate it.

It would be easier if it was just about sex, or if I just wanted to be his friend. I wasn't looking for a relationship, I was content to let my failure stand and move on, alone. But he's in my heart now, and he was right, I want more. I want more… but I can wait, because I want more with him.

I push off the car and turn to face him. "Let me take you home," I say, taking his hand in mine and squeezing it. He nods and lets me lead him to the passenger side door and help him in.

* * *

The night has cooled down, and the streets are mostly empty as we ride home. As I drive, he watches me through half closed eyes, and occasionally, I reach out and take his hand. To reassure him that I'm here, myself that he's here, to reassure both of us that we're still together.

I offer him the guest room, but invite him to sleep with me, and he stays. The bed is big enough that it's not as awkward as it could be, and, exhausted from weeks of travel, I fall asleep with him beside me.

* * *

**Note:** So, I'm trying out some John POV, it seems. This is meant to be at least three parts, which would cover the Tampa section. I probably shouldn't say it, but I'm not completely sold on this story. We'll see, I guess.

Also, I'm about a month behind on wrestling, so I need to spend some quality time with my DVR. I hear there's something worth catching up for.


	2. Tampa - Day Two

Note: After a migraine, a brief trip, a couple Stanley Cup final games, some writer's block, and about seven different starts, here it is. I hope you all enjoy. And thank you for the reviews, they were amazing.

* * *

**Tampa, Florida  
Day Two: Wednesday**

The next day, I'd almost think we were just keeping things friendly, if not for the slow burning tension that settles between us and grows as the day goes on.

He's gone when I wake up. I'm not surprised – sometimes, on the road, he hardly seems to sleep at all – but I am more disappointed than I expected to be. It's been too long since I've just lain in bed and held someone, too long since I've allowed myself to be lazy and forget the world.

When he gets back from his morning run half an hour later, bare chested and sweaty, I realize it's probably just as well. I promised to take things slow, and the way I feel when I see him, skin flushed with exertion, glistening with sweat, his nylon shorts clinging to his body in all the right places – well, it's anything but _slow_.

As I stand in my front hallway, half-finished mug of coffee in my hand, molesting him with my eyes, his eyes darken and his lips curve up in the ghost of a knowing smile. But then, he allows the moment to pass, turns to drop my spare set of house keys in the bowl on the hall table.

When he comes down from his shower, I cook us breakfast and we sit down to eat in my kitchen like it's something we do every day. He holds up most of a conversation about baseball, biting wit included, and I appreciate it a lot more when it's not directed at me. I'm reminded of how we became friends to begin with. I think of long waits in between bursts of too much work, where he'd talk, not to hear the sound of his own voice like I used to think, but to quiet the noise in his head, and I'd listen to fill the void in mine.

It's all too normal once I think about it, despite the change in scenery, and when he looks at me over his mug of decaf coffee, I can tell he's remembering too. It was during those long stretches of frustration and boredom that we became something more. But we don't talk about that, about how he reacted when he first realized I was flirting with him, or about the first time we kissed, alone in my bus while waiting for new pages from creative. We just talk and eat, as if none of that is important.

We spend the rest of the morning doing nothing in particular, just hanging out around the house. He does laundry while I sort through mail, do all the household chores I haven't been able to do while I'm away and can't delegate to the caretaker. We don't talk much, but every so often, I catch him watching me, an almost speculative look in his eyes. When he notices me looking back, he starts letting his gaze linger for long seconds before turning away.

It's not until the middle of the afternoon that things move into another gear. He's sprawled across the loveseat in my den, a graphic novel in one hand and his phone clenched in his other. I'm sitting on the sofa, half-heartedly flipping through the pages of old copy of a fitness magazine. I wait for a quip about my low brow reading tastes, my limited set of interests, my intellect in general, but nothing is forthcoming. He's not paying attention to me. In fact, he doesn't seem to be paying attention to much at all.

"Do you mind if I turn on the TV?" I ask, mostly out of courtesy, because I honestly don't think he'd notice if I did.

He looks up at me like he's just remembering I exist, then flips himself into a sitting position. "Are you sure that's what you want to do?" he asks in response, all blinking wide-eyed innocence.

"Yes?" I answer uncertainty. I feel like I've been asked a trick question, but I'm not sure exactly what the trick is. "SportsCenter's on… unless you have something else in mind?"

"Maybe," he says, both decisively and, to me, mysteriously. I was talking about putting on another channel, but something tells me he's taking "something else" a lot more broadly than that. He leans forward and deliberately sets his phone and book on the coffee table, then gets up and walks over to me. He holds out a hand and gestures for my magazine. I hand it to him, and he puts it on the table too, safely out of the way.

I'm about to ask what he's planning on doing, when, in one smooth motion, he climbs onto the sofa and straddles my lap. His hands braced lightly against my chest, he leans in and kisses me, slowly, languidly. I forget about ESPN and let him take the lead, lean back into soft leather and trail my hands down his bare calves. They're runner's calves, developed and muscular, and covered in soft hair. His lower legs are practically the only part of his body he doesn't shave regularly, and the part of him I'm least familiar with.

He pulls back eventually, lets his weight settle on my legs. His hands resting on his thighs, he pushes his tongue against his lip ring from the inside of his mouth, a gesture I've come to associate with nervousness, and watches for my reaction.

"I could do with more of that," I tell him, trying to keep my reaction low key. Despite my best efforts, my voice comes out deep with arousal, and my hands wander from his legs to his waist, almost of their own accord.

"I could do with more than that," he responds, an edge of apprehension to his voice, despite a certainty in his words that tells me he'd been thinking about this for a while.

I can't help myself. I pull him in until we're flush and I kiss him, and this time it's far less teasing, less testing. I don't want to stop, but I force myself to do it. It's over just as quickly as it started, except now the full weight of his body is pressed against mine. I can feel his erection pressing against my stomach and I'm sure he can feel mine.

"Sorry," I whisper in his ear.

He pushes himself up against my chest to create some separation between us. "Don't—" he starts, then groans low in the back of his throat as his hips slide forward at his attempt to gain leverage. "Don't be," he says with a shake of his head. "This is…" he trails off, struggling for words in a way he almost never does.

"Slow?" I suggest. If there's frustration in my voice, I don't mean for it to be there.

"Steady," he responds. I can't quite tell if it's annoyance at me or self-mocking in his tone.

"We're going to have to discuss what that means," I tell him, feeling like a woman for saying it, but having to anyway, if only for my own sanity. On an average day, I have a hard time understanding him, but this is taking it to a whole new level.

"Yeah. Maybe," he acknowledges with an uneasy shrug. "Just don't be sorry, okay?"

His voice is gruff and a little angry, more a demand than a question. It's his way of reacting to his own perceived missteps, I realize, and I let it pass over me without a reaction.

"Tell me what you want me to do," I tell him, brushing the back of his hand with my thumb. "And I won't have anything to be sorry for."

He looks at me for what seems like a long time, as if he's evaluating the sincerity of my words, deciding whether they contain any blame, any resentment. When I'm starting to think he's going to balk, pull away, he leans in and presses his lips to mine, lets the space between us diminish back to nothing. This time, his kiss is slow and sweet, the kind of kiss you want to last forever, even if you know it never can.

"Blow me," he suggests, his mouth less than an inch from mine. There's a hint of mocking in his tone, a hint of teasing, but mostly, a request.

I move my hands to his hips and turn us over so that he's lying on the sofa beneath me in a move that would make even my worst critics proud. He blinks up at me, and I feel a little proud for having managed to surprise even him.

I kiss him softly for reassurance, then I make my way down his body slowly. Despite the air conditioning, the air between us is hot and close, the leather of the sofa warm with body heat, slick in spots from the contact of skin. I lay a hand on his abdomen where his shirt has ridden up, and I notice it's trembling.

"You've done this before, right?" he asks in a hushed tone.

He's propped up on his elbows, looking down at me. From this angle, his body is long and lean, and impossibly attractive. I want him so badly I almost choke with it. So badly it scares me.

"Not with you," I tell him with a slight shake of my head. It's the only answer that matters right now, at least to me.

The truth is that I don't have a lot of experience, just enough to know my way around. As I unbutton his shorts, though, my hands are still less than steady. I feel a touch on my wrist, and I look up to find Punk still studying me, but with an entirely different look in his eyes. He lets himself fall back against the sofa, then pushes my hands away and slides his own shorts and underwear down over his hips.

I suck in a breath as his erection springs free of its confines. I lean in almost automatically, my hands finding support in the hollows of his hips, as if that's where they're meant to be. I taste him tentatively, run my tongue along the underside of his shaft. It tears a groan looks from his throat, an echo of that low, helpless sound from earlier, and in that sound, I'm lost.

I've never been accused of having a great technique, but that doesn't seem to matter to him. As I suck him off, with more enthusiasm than skill, the noises he makes, the tremors of pleasure that run through his body, are intoxicating. All I want is to hear more, to make him tremble beneath me.

After a while, he goes rigid beneath me, and for an instant I'm worried I've done something wrong, but then my brain makes its way to the more obvious conclusion and I redouble my efforts.

"John—" he says in a strangled tone, his hand coming up to encircle my wrist. I think he's telling me to stop, but I don't, I hollow my cheeks around his cock and let it slide down my throat. I swallow as he comes, surprisingly noiselessly, the creak of leather as he arches his back off the sofa the only sound in my ears. His fingers are like steel bands around my wrist, and his fingernails, though blunt, bite into my skin.

I pull back slowly, give him time to ride the aftershocks and come back to himself. He lets go of my wrist, and when I look up at him, his expression is completely unreadable. I move back up his body and lie next to him, half on top of him due to the limited space available. I'm not expecting anything, except maybe for him to push me off of him, but he reaches for me, palms my erection through my clothes. I push back, and an embarrassingly short time later, I come in my pants, without any skin to skin contact.

We lie there together, catching our breaths, sweat cooling on our skins. My leg is wedged between his thighs at an odd angle and his shoulder digs uncomfortably into my chest, but I don't want to move, even though I know we'll have to sooner rather than later.

He turns to look at me, a lazy smile on his face. "You're good at that," he says. I feel myself blush, and duck my head, hoping he doesn't see.

He lifts his hand, touches my face, turns my chin so I'm looking him in the eye. There's very little trace of nervousness there now, just the quiet introspection that I often envy him for. He says nothing, and we look at each for long minutes. Then he smiles and I smile back automatically, helplessly. He must like what he sees, because his smile widens, and he nods slightly before leaning in and kissing me.

"SportsCenter is almost over," he says, his voice a raw whisper against my skin.

"SportsCenter?" I ask dumbly. I don't even know what that is right now.

"Yeah. You wanted to watch TV, right?" he says. Now he sounds like he's on the verge of laughter, amused at my expense, but that's normal, and I've grown to both expect and like it.

After a short trip upstairs to clean up, I'm back on the sofa where I started, almost as if nothing happened. But when he comes back from the bathroom, he picks up his phone off the coffee table and, instead of going back to loveseat, curls up next to me, using my leg as a pillow. I lay a hand on his shoulder and he makes no comment.

The TV buzzes in the background, but I'm focused mostly on Punk. He fiddles with his phone for a little while, before shoving it into his pocket. After a few minutes, I notice that he's asleep, feel the slow and even rise and fall of his breath under my hand. I think about turning off the TV, but it doesn't seem to bother him, so I leave it on, and allow myself to drift off too.


	3. Tampa - Day Two (Night)

**Tampa, Florida  
Day Two: Wednesday (Night)**

When I wake up, I'm reminded of how much I hate falling asleep on the sofa. I'm stiff and cold, and for a panic stricken moment, I think I'm backstage at a show. I bolt upright with the horrible feeling that I'm about to miss my cue and nobody's around to tell me. It's not until I open my eyes and realize I'm in my own home that things start so come back to me.

I remember Punk sleeping beside me. I look to my side, hoping I haven't woken him, but he's already sitting up beside me, yawning. I slowly come to the conclusion that he must've woken me up, not the other way around.

"Your thighs are like rock," he says, in a way that I can be sure it's not a compliment, as he massages a kink in his neck.

"Hack squats," I tell him, pretending obliviousness, as I glance at the clock. It's just shy of 4:30. "Come to the gym with me and I'll show you."

He growls at me to show me he's not impressed with my sense of humor. I expect that – he's never at his finest when he first wakes up. What I don't quite expect is how he leans into me as he gets up, gives me a casual peck on the lips as he wanders out of the room.

I follow him into the kitchen and watch, still dopey with sleep, as he fills a glass with water from the sink and drinks deep. I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, press my face to his neck. He lays a hand over one of mine, and I stand there holding him for a minute, then kiss the side of his head as I let him go.

"All better?" I ask.

"All better," he answers softly, not a trace of irony in his voice.

* * *

We do end up going to my gym, but I'm careful to steer clear of anything resembling workout advice. He doesn't always mind it, coming from me, but I don't feel like pressing my luck for the sake of a joke. For every time it's turned out well, we've had a few spirited discussions and at least one screaming argument.

The place is mostly empty, which at the moment is a good thing, because I'm not sure how to be around people again, after what we did earlier. I feel like blushing whenever I look at him, like I'm a teenager experiencing all this for the first time, and I worry that everyone will notice. I introduce him to a couple guys, say hello to a couple he already knows, try my best to act casual. They all seem to accept that he and I might just hang out on our days off for no particular reason, but it's a relief when we go our separate ways and I'm somewhere I can't do anything to embarrass either one of us. I settle into my routine, and like it has since I was that gangley, awkward teenager, lifting clears my head. For an hour, I focus only on form and movement, pushing my body to its limits. By the time I finish my last rep, I'm feeling a lot more like myself.

When I'm finished cleaning up after myself, I look for Punk and see him working on the bench. He's wearing his headphones, focused on his workout. He doesn't notice as I walk around back of him and wave away the kid who's been spotting him. Despite this, when I help him guide the bar into position on the rack, he tilts his head back to look at me and seems completely unsurprised to find me there.

The way he smiles at me twists up my insides and I'd love to lean over and kiss him. I let myself imagine doing just that as I stand above him, my hands braced on the bar between his, overhand to his underhand. At times like these, I wonder if he can read my mind. His smile turns into an outright smirk, and even though he doesn't say anything, I can almost read his inner dialogue in his glittering eyes. With a subtle shake of his head, he drops his hands from the bar and knocks his headphones off his ears.

"You done being macho?" he asks, ignoring what just happened. I can deal with that.

"Yeah. You done being practical?" I answer in kind.

"One more set," he says, then slides his headphones back one, despite the fact that there doesn't seem to be any music playing through them.

I stay in case he needs a spot, but he moves the weight fluidly, with only a hint of strain. I notice he's lifting even lighter than I would have expected, but the muscles in his arms and shoulders still stand out in sharp relief. I know what it's like to feel those muscles under my hands, to touch his body in a purely professional capacity. I'm only now realizing how much I want to learn it in a new way, that I don't just want to sleep with him, I want to make love to him.

I try to file this information away, put it out of my mind, as I shower and change. He's a constant presence near me, though, dragging at my attention, tempting me to stare inappropriately. I don't want to start thinking of him that way here, in a locker room, because I'm afraid I'll never stop. I don't know what I was expecting us to become. Friends with benefits? Not this, anyway. When I invited him to my house, I didn't expect to be all tied up in knots over him, no matter how much I liked spending time with him, wanted him. Like he said yesterday, I thought it would be easier.

I drag my feet, take longer than I usually do, and he's gone by the time I'm done. When I get outside, he's leaning against my Jeep, his bag on his shoulder, staring intently at the screen of his phone. A half smile plays at his lips, like he's reading something amusing. I know in that moment that easy isn't even a factor. I just worry that that my heart will end up broken again somewhere in the process, or worse, his will.

* * *

We decide to go out for an early dinner, but somehow a quick stop at home to change cars turns into a half hour make out session. What's meant to be one kiss turns into two, then three, then he opens his mouth to mine and I'm reaching across the car for him. Minutes later, I drag him across the center console. Before long, he's half in my lap, his legs contorted to fit around the gear shift.

His hands slide under my shirt, massage my back in slow circles as he attacks my mouth with his tongue. I pull him closer with one arm, slide the other up the leg of his shorts to grab a handful of smooth thigh muscle. His flesh is yielding under my hand, nothing like the rock he accused mine of being, but I wouldn't do a thing to change it.

Before we can get any farther, a phone rings. I want to ignore it, but he freezes immediately.

"Shit,' he mumbles as he pulls back from me. "Fuck."

I don't want to, but I let him slide back into his own seat. He leans forward, his hands on his knees, and lets out a slow breath. I can't help it, I feel like apologizing to him.

As I'm trying to figure out what to say, the phone beeps again. I assume it's his, because his phone always seems to be making some kind of noise, but when he makes no move to go for it, I realize it must be mine. I don't get a lot of calls, so I dig it out of my pocket to check, in case it's something important. It's only Randy. I curse him silently.

I look back at Punk. He's leaning back in his seat, head tilted towards the ceiling. "Do you still want to go out?" I ask him, at a loss for what else to say.

I wonder what the alternative I'm offering is. Go at it in a parked car in my garage some more. Go inside, finish what we started in here. Find two different corners of the house where we don't even have to see each other. Or talk about it. Have an upfront, honest conversation about what's going on.

He turns his head to look at me. His eyes are dark and remote. "Yeah. Just give me a minute," he says.

I need a minute too, so I my time choosing which car to drive and getting the keys. I pick out a flashy yellow Mustang with black racing stripes. When I get back, he seems completely calm. My body has cooled down, but my thoughts are still a mess.

We talk a little about trivial things over dinner, but there's an undeniable tension between us. All I can think about is that moment before my phone rang, and what might have happened if it hadn't. I know he's thinking about it too, I just can't imagine _what _he's thinking, whether he's glad we were stopped, if he's mad at me for trying anything to begin with. If he wishes he had just left when I gave him the chance, or hadn't come at all.

We drive around for a while, then stop at a strip mall off the highway and go see a movie. We buy tickets for whatever's playing, and I'm barely aware of the action on the screen. I try to pay attention anyway, anything to keep my mind off him, rigid in the dark beside me. It seems like we've been sitting there forever when I feel his hand touch mine on our shared armrest. I glance at him, but his eyes are on the screen. It could have just been an accident, but he doesn't move it. I inch my hand over so it's half covering his. He lets me leave it there until the credits start to roll.

It's late when we finally get home, so we head straight upstairs to get ready for bed. When I get out of the bathroom, Punk is sitting cross legged at the head of the bed.

"So, I guess we should talk," he says, his voice indicating he's not necessarily sure he wants to. I'm surprised he even brought it up, because his skill at avoidance is legendary.

I sit across from him at the foot of the bed. "Yeah, I think we need to."

"I know you invited me here to sleep with me," he says, suddenly very interested in his fingernails. It's not so much an accusation as a declaration.

"Yes," I agree. No point in denying what we both know. "I did. But only because I thought that's what we both wanted."

"You're not disappointed?" He tilts his head up, as if to look at me without really looking at me.

I shrug. Disappointed is a loaded word. It's not what I want to tell him I am. Plus, I'm not sure if it's exactly the way I feel. "I'm… okay," I say. "Like I said, I can wait."

'I don't want you to think it's because I don't want you," he says all in one breath. "Or because I enjoy jerking you around."

He looks me in the eye, as if begging me to understand what he's trying to convey through ESP. I move closer, put a hand on his knee. "Then tell me," I say.

"I've rushed far too many things in my life," he says slowly, as if this is a hard admission for him. "I don't want this to be one of them. I just want to wait until things feel right."

I nod. "I understand," I tell him. Despite the skeptical look he gives me, I do. I might not have yesterday morning, but my mind is open to a lot more possibilities now. "But I need to know where we are in the meantime. What's okay and what isn't."

"I don't know," he says, frustrated. "I don't want to dictate shit to you, John. I don't want to tell you that you can have one thing, but not another."

"I'd rather you did," I say, letting my own frustration leak through. "Then I wouldn't have to constantly be worried I'm doing something wrong."

"Oh," he says softly, in a sigh of realization, as if I just said something more than I thought I did. He puts a hand over mine on his knee. "That wasn't about you. I was worried that _I_ would let things get out of hand if we didn't get out of here."

His voice is full of a delicate sympathy that I don't get, and it makes me uneasy. I frown at him in confusion. "I'm not going to be like her," he tells me.

It takes me a second to realize which 'her' he means, my conscious mind is that far from my ex-wife, my failed marriage, but now I remember in a tumult the constant frustration of never being what she wanted, of never managing to do or say the right thing. I remember dumping those frustrations on him, well before a relationship between the two of us was a consideration, before we were even truly friends.

"I'm sorry," I say. I'm not really sure what I'm apologizing for.

"You shouldn't be sorry," he says with a shake of his head. "I should. You always seem to know what I'm thinking. I'll tell you next time."

I huff out of breath of air. "Punk," I say, with a reluctant desire to laugh. "I never know what you're thinking."

"You do okay," he says, an amused note in his tone too. "Better than most people."

It's something. It's definitely something. Maybe nothing was really settled, but I feel a lot better as we turn out the lights, crawl into bed together. I reach for him and he moves into my arms. There's a fragile intimacy between us, one that I haven't had with anyone in ages. One that I know I wouldn't be getting to enjoy if I'd already slept with him.

"Do me a favor," I murmur, thinking of other firsts I have yet to share with him, as I start to fall asleep. "Wake me up before you go."

"Masochist," he responds, but I know he'll do it, no matter how early it is when he decides to get up.

* * *

Note: So, I guess this is turning out into at least 4 chapters for Tampa, possibly one on the road, maybe Chicago. Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. If anyone wants to check me out on twitter, my username is m_annalore. I also have a Tumblr, username m-annalore. Only thing there is pictures of deep dish pizza. Read Gradients by JacAlley and you will understand.


	4. Tampa - Day Three

Note: Okay, this was a seriously long time. What was it, three weeks? I had such block for this story, but I did write two one shots in the meantime, and a set of drabbles. I will try to do better next time.

* * *

**Tampa, Florida  
Day Three: Thursday**

He calls my name in a low, sing-song tone that melts away into the darkness. I try to ignore him. I don't know what time it is, but I know it's too early to be awake. He touches my cheek, runs his fingertips over my skin so that the light, barely there sensation sends chills down my spine. I slap his hand away.

For a second, I think I've won, that I'm free to go back to sleep, but then he decides to play dirty. He hooks my leg with his, pulls himself closer until his whole body is pressed to my side. "Jo-hn," he practically purrs in my ear, enunciating my name like it's two syllables.

With a groan, I roll into him so we're flush, wrap my arm around his waist. "You're a fucking sadist," I mumble against his skin, my face buried in his neck.

His body shakes with silent laughter against mine; he doesn't answer otherwise. I feel his fingers dancing along my ribcage and I appreciate the not quite ticklish sensation, until I realize what he's doing. I try to twist away, but I'm a second too late and he gets me with a hard jab between my ribs. I let out an undignified squawk as I pull away from him in betrayal.

When I open my eyes to look at him, I expect to see a self-satisfied smirk, but he's only sporting a quiet little half grin. "There you are," he says, his voice low and affectionate.

"I guess I asked for it," I admit grudgingly, rubbing my side. I forgive him immediately, I'd forgive anything for that smile and that warmth, but I don't quite want him to know it yet.

"Mmm…" he murmurs in agreement, moving back into my personal space. I'm awake now, he has no reason to attack again, but I grab his hand anyway, just in case. He weaves his fingers through mine.

"You going out for a run?" I ask, letting my body settle comfortably against his.

"Not yet," he answers. "I figured we could… hang out… for a bit."

His voice is low and suggestive and seems to hold a world of possibilities, but I don't want to assume too much about what he's offering.

"I guess we could do that," I agree cautiously.

He separates his hand from mine and I let it go, decide to trust him again. He lays it on the side of my face, his thumb brushing my cheek, fingers wrapping around the back of my neck. With the slightest amount of pressure, he pulls me in until our foreheads our touching, then tilts his head up. Our noses bump, then our lips meet.

At this, he's definitely an expert. I lose track of time as we explore each other's mouths in slow, skimming kisses. I don't think about wanting more, going farther, I'm content to just stay this way for the foreseeable future.

I slide my hand up his spine under his shirt, let it rest between his shoulder blades. His back curves under my hand as he arches his body into mine. He's starting to get hard, I can feel it for a second, but he's pulling away even as I attempt to hold him closer.

I try to hold back a sound of protest, but I'm not quite successful. Punk sighs heavily and looks at me with chagrin. "I know I started this," he says. "But if I don't go now, I might not go at all."

I want to be selfish, I want to tell him not to go, just stay here with me. But I instantly feel guilty, I know what running means to him, I know how I feel about people trying to mess with my workout. I force a nod, and as if he was just waiting for my permission, he gives me one last quick kiss, then rolls out of bed.

I watch him collect his running gear and go into the bathroom with a sense of confusion and regret. I knew he was never planning on staying, he just did what I asked and woke me up, but now I'd rather not watch him go. Masochist, I tell myself as I roll onto my back, and stare up at the ceiling, now visible in the predawn light.

He comes back into the room a few minutes later. His sneakers make no sound on the plush carpet, but I hear the brush of his nylon running shorts between his thighs as he walks towards the door, then stops and heads back to the bed. The mattress dips under his weight as he sits.

"Go back to sleep, John," he says in a soft voice, squeezing my outstretched hand. "I'll try to make this quick."

I turn my head to look at him. "You're coming back?" I hate the way I sound. Of course he's coming back, to the house anyway.

He shakes his head slightly and frowns, I'm not sure at what. "I'm coming back, so you better keep this bed warm for me."

It's so hard to just let him stand and leave after that, hard to contemplate having to wait even a few minutes to have him back in my arms, but I do it, I let him go willingly. I decide to wait for him come back to me.

I don't think I will be able to get back to sleep after that, but I'm out within minutes. Punk drifts in and out of my dreams, elusive and insubstantial, yet somehow so real that I don't even notice the moment I wake up, something solid and tangible in my arms.

I pull him in, inhale the scent of body wash and shampoo. His skin is still damp from the shower, bare under my hands. I'm almost convinced I'm still dreaming.

"Miss me?" he asks, a playful lilt to his tone.

"Were you gone?" I respond, nuzzling his jaw, kissing along his collarbone.

"Funny," he says dryly, even as he arches into my touch. "Maybe I'll just go."

I pull back and look him in the eye. "Stay," I say. He's joking, I can tell he's joking, but I just can't handle the thought of him leaving again.

"What would you want me to do, if I did?" he asks coyly. I open my mouth to respond, but he puts a shushing finger to my lips. "You get a request. Just one."

Despite how he asked the question, his eyes are now completely serious. I think about what I want from him, wonder how I could boil it down to just one thing, especially without going too far. Truthfully, I wouldn't mind just lying here with him, no extra-curriculars necessary, but the offer is too tempting. I look over his almost naked body, and settle on a request.

"Would you take these off?" I ask, touching his boxers, the only thing he has on. I feel my cheeks flush, despite the relative innocence of the request.

He blinks slowly, then nods. He puts a few inches of distance between us, rolls onto his back. He moves his hands to his hips, hooks his thumbs under the elastic of his waistband, then stops. "You do it," he says.

I swallow hard. That invitation, the way he's looking at me, makes this all seem just a little bit more real. He props himself up on his elbows, keeps looking at me as I straddle his legs, touch the white fabric covering him. My hands don't shake this time as I peel the fabric back, pull his boxers down his hips, over his thighs. I move aside and he kicks them away, and he's completely naked in front of me.

I want to stay here for hours, look at him, every part of him, but for now, my eyes are drawn towards his groin. He's more than half erect and I can't resist leaning in, sucking him into my mouth. A shiver runs through my body as he hardens fully for me and I swallow around his erection. He lets out a moan, loud and echoing in the large room, and it's only then that I realize what I'm doing.

I pull back, crawl up the bed so we're face to face. I open my mouth to say sorry, but he's already pulling me into a kiss. It's hard and messy and he ends it breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.

"Jesus, John. Your fucking mouth… I love that."

"You don't have to say that," I tell him.

He frowns at me. "Have you ever known me to give compliments I don't mean?"

He's right, he doesn't, but I still can't quite look at him. This situation makes me uncomfortable and confused and I just don't really gets what he wants from me. I shake my head, but it must not be convincing, because his expression doesn't change.

He takes my hand and, our fingers intertwined, brings it to his lips, kisses my knuckles, presses his cheek to the back of my hand.

"I know I shouldn't ask for favors I'm not prepared to return," he says hesitantly. He pauses, then looks up at me. "You could go down on me any day of the week."

I can almost feel my heart literally skip a beat as he looks at me with heated eyes, and I want to forget the moment before, go back to doing what I had been, but I can't. He almost seems haunted about it, and it just hurts to see that. I wrap my arm around his back, hold him close, kiss him softly.

I'm about to broach the subject when the phone rings.

It's the house phone, practically no one has that number, so I'm prepared to ignore it, but before it even rings a second time I can feel Punk retreating emotionally, if not physically.

"Stay," I say desperately. "It's nothing."

"We should get up anyway," he answers, though he doesn't move.

Then the talking caller ID that I could never be bothered figuring out how to turn off, because I'm not here often enough for it to truly annoy me, announces a call from "Or-ton, Ran-dy."

I feel even less like answering now that I know who's calling, but Punk reaches over me to grab the cordless from the nighttable and shoves it at me, answering it in the process.

"Randy, hi!" I say in an overly loud, overly bright tone while glaring daggers at Punk. I just don't get what's gotten into him.

"Good, you are around," Randy says on the other end of the line, his deep voice slow and measured. I haven't talked to him since his suspension, but I can already tell there's something off. Whatever this is, this is not a conversation I want to have, especially right now.

"Yeah, I'm a little busy, but—" I cut off as Punk pinches my biceps.

"You're not busy," he hisses at the same time as Randy asks, "Do you have someone there?"

I look at Punk helplessly, but he just shakes his head then twists out of my arms. I sigh and close my eyes so I don't have to see his naked ass as he walks away from me. I keep them that way until I hear the bathroom door shut.

"No, I'm okay. I'm good," I say into the phone. "I can talk." It looks like I have no other choice at the moment.

Randy outlines his situation in spare, direct words. He's never been one to embellish, and this time is no different, as he tells me he and Sam are having problems, are probably going to try a separation. I feel bad, of course I feel terrible for him, and I feel guilty for the way I've been treating him, mostly, and I feel oddly, incongruously, bad for myself.

I stare at the bathroom door, willing Punk to come out, but he doesn't, not even when I hear the shower stop running.

I finish the conversation quickly, spouting cold, empty platitudes that make it seem like we don't even really know each other. I hate it, but I can't help it, and I think he can tell that I can't.

I lie there, the phone forgotten in my hand, and eventually, Punk does come out. He's wearing a towel around his waist and he edges around the room to his bag as if anticipating awkwardness between us. I wish he would go, I wish he weren't here at all, and I just want him so badly.

I don't think I make a sound, but all of a sudden he looks over at me. I feel a lump forming in my throat and I swallow. I try to smile. He drops the pile of clothes he's been gathering and climbs back into bed with me.

I wrap my arms around him and he pries the phone out of my hand gently. I pull the towel from around his waist and touch his skin, hold his body to mine, and wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life. And I try, I really try, to imagine it without him in it, but I can't, and we're so far down the road of no return.

I pull him on top of me, let his weight press me into the mattress. He kisses my neck, then tucks his head under my chin, his wet hair leaving water stains on my shirt. I think I'm in love with him, and right now, that's the worst feeling I could be having.


	5. Tampa - Day Three (Later)

**Note:** From three weeks to less than one, you might all get spoiled at this rate. In all seriousness, I am trying for once a week, I can't seem to handle any more than that.

Thanks to everyone who left a review, I really appreciate it. And I promise they'll get out of Tampa soon.

* * *

**Tampa, Florida**  
**Day Three: Thursday (Later)**

I feel like staying in bed forever and Punk seems happy to oblige, but the clock is staring me in the face, mocking me. In the blink of an eye, it's midmorning. The limo is picking us up to leave for the airport at 6, and I can feel the handful of hours we have left between then and now slipping away. There's so much I want to do, and I can't bring myself to do any of it.

What finally gets me up are the growling noises coming from Punk's stomach. I tell him I'll buy him breakfast, and he just stares at me, gives me one of those long, searching looks he's so famous for, and I feel like he can see into my soul. I hate to think of what he finds there, so I look away. He agrees to breakfast.

He gets dressed in the bedroom and I watch, regretting each piece of clothing that covers his body. I wish I could keep him here, naked in bed, just so I could hold him. When he's ready, he heads downstairs to wait for me. I can't handle the thought of getting in the shower, so I just throw on a pair of basketball shorts and a shirt, grab some socks and a pair of sneakers.

When I get downstairs, he already has the keys to the Jeep in his hand. I let him drive, despite not being entirely sure of how long it's been since he was behind the wheel of a car. It's surprisingly okay, and I just sit there with my shoes in my lap, give him minimal directions to the highway. After that, he seems to know exactly where he's going.

A little while later, we pull up in front of a small Middle Eastern diner. As he parks the car, Punk smiles like he's about to greet an old friend.

"I thought you hated Tampa," I say. The words come out wrong, full of irrational jealousy and bitterness, over a restaurant, of all things.

He turns to look at me. "There are one or two good things about it," he says with an edge that tells me he's seriously considering whether or not I'm one of them.

He opens his door. I look down at the pair of socks I'm still clutching in my hand and back at him.

"Do you want me to bring you out something?" he asks, his hand still on his door handle. I nod and reach for my wallet, only to realize I don't even have it with me. "It's okay, John, I got this," he says with a sigh, then leaves.

As I watch him walk into the diner, I roll my socks into a ball and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. I'm nowhere close to an answer when Punk comes back, two styrofoam containers balanced in his hands. A golden, spicy scent fills the Jeep as he climbs back in and we share a breakfast of falafel and cucumber salad in silence. I help myself to his portion of the pita bread, and he grabs my tahini.

When we're finished, he takes the containers away and throws them in the trash. Back in the car, he navigates the way back to my house with no problems at all, without any input from me. We go inside and I dump my unworn shoes and socks at the bottom of the stairs, then plant myself in front of the TV. I don't turn it on.

I can hear Punk in the kitchen and I wish he were here next to me, but I don't have the energy to call out to him. I can't even be bothered wondering what he's doing.

As I sit there, I try to fight off memories of what happened in this exact spot yesterday. His graphic novel is still on the coffee table and my magazine is lying askew next to it. I wish I could turn back the clock, go back to the point where I was lying in his arms, grinning like an idiot because he was smiling at me, just happy because I was near him.

I see myself in the dark surface of my giant flat screen, paralyzed and alone. Then, all of a sudden, I catch movement in the reflection and watch as Punk walks up behind me. He leans over the back of the sofa, his chest pressed to my shoulders, kisses me behind the ear and offers me the cup of coffee he's holding in his right hand.

'Thanks," I say, inhaling the scent as I take it from him. Then he wraps his left arm around me too, and holds a chocolate truffle under my nose. It's extra dark, my favorite kind. "Where-?" I try to ask, but he shushes me, kisses the other side of my neck before pulling away and walking around the sofa to sit next to me.

I put the coffee aside and dive straight into the truffle, unwrapping the black plastic with reverence. Without even looking to see if Punk is watching, I bring the chocolate to my nose and breathe in its scent. That alone nearly does me in. How he knew these are my secret pleasure, I can't even begin to guess. The first bite is so good, I can hardly handle it; it's been far too long since I've allowed myself to indulge.

Punk waits patiently by my side until I finish, and when I look up at him, still licking chocolate stains from my fingers, he has a glazed-eye look and I can feel my cheeks heating up, like he caught me doing something indecent.

"Talk to me, John," he says, his voice low and throaty, but commanding nonetheless.

"I…" Something in me freezes. I don't like to think of myself as the closed off guy, the one unwilling to share his life with anyone, but I have such a hard time believing they really want to know. I shrug.

He inches closer, takes my hand in both of his. "Tell me what you're feeling."

I would feel so self-conscious saying those words, I would be terrified of the response, but he just seems so genuine. He is genuine, that's who he's always been. If he asks, he wants to know.

"I don't want to hurt you," I blurt out.

I look up at him, shocked at how quickly that came out of my mouth. I want him to reassure me, I want him to tell me I'm not going to do that.

"We can't control what happens," he says instead. Like he's already considered the possibility and discounted it.

I shake my head. "I won't. I _can't_ do that. You're too important to me and I want us to be friends, I don't want that to end."

"You… want us to be friends?" For all I just said, he sounds a little hurt already. "Isn't it a little too late for you to want us to just be friends?"

"Not _just_ friends. I just don't want us to _stop_ being friends because we're something else. Or because we're not something else anymore."

In moments like this, his eyes are so expressive. I can see the edges of his anger soften as he moves closer to me, touches my knee with one hand, keeps the other wrapped around mine. "What brought this on?"

I hesitate. I want to tell him, but it's not really mine to tell. Randy didn't ask me not to, but he used to be a good friend, a friend whose confidences I'd keep above all others. But this is Punk. This is someone I love, asking to know my heart.

"John," he says, squeezing my hand. "If you want us to be together, you're going to have to trust me."

I squeeze his hand back, a little tighter than I probably should, but he doesn't even wince. "Is that what you want? To be with me?"

"You know it is," he answers without any hesitation. I wish I did know that, know it as thoroughly and convincingly as he seems to.

"Randy and Sam are having problems," I tell him, feeling a little bit like I'm betraying Randy even as I do. I feel sick just saying the words.

"That's too bad," Punk says, and I can tell he means it, despite the history between him and Randy.

"But it happens, right?" I ask, because I know he's thinking it. He doesn't disagree with me. I've heard his opinions on relationships far too often not to be familiar with them. "They always seemed so perfect to me."

Nobody's perfect, nothing's perfect, I know that, but I thought that if anyone in this business could be happy, they could. Me and Liz, that was rocky to begin with, and no matter how hard we tried we couldn't get it right. But I always thought that with the right person, it would just work, and now I'm worried that even that's not enough.

"That's the end of the story. This is the beginning. Let's just enjoy it." He looks at me intently, watching for my response. I find myself nodding reluctantly.

"You can't worry about this, John," he insists.

"I'll try not to," I tell him. I'm not sure if it's convincing, but he nods approvingly.

I lean in for a kiss, but he stops me with a hand to the shoulder. "Not when you've been eating chocolates, I can feel that shit going straight to my hips just thinking about it."

I open my mouth to protest that he's the one who gave it to me, and that's when he kisses me. My protests melt in his mouth as his tongue attacks mine and our kiss tastes dark and sinful. I wrap my arm around him and pull him to my side as we separate. He lays his head on my chest and we sit there quietly, but this time the silence is comfortable.

After a few minutes, he pulls another truffle from his pocket and flicks it at me. I catch it easily. It's warm and melting from his body heat and a complete mess as I eat it. He licks chocolate from my fingers and I forget about everything else as I feel his tongue glide over my skin, hot and rough and leaving trails of moisture, watch him suck my fingers into his mouth.

I groan, arousal sneaking up on me and hitting me like a freight train. He lets go of my fingers with a pop, his hand still encircling my wrist. He looks down at the rapidly developing tent in my shorts, then back up at me.

"Tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it," he says, and I think at this point he's including even the one thing that he told me he wouldn't do. I want to ask for that so badly, but I couldn't do that to him.

I shake my head. "I already got my request. It's your turn now."

He studies me for what seems like a long time before answering. "I want to touch you," he says. I nod. I'd agree to anything at this point, even a much less enticing prospect than that.

He straddles me and offers me his hand. I grab his wrist and lean in to lick his palm. I look into his eyes as he lowers his hands to my waistband. I'm half convinced he's not actually going to do until I feel him slide his hand into my shorts and wrap his fingers around my erection.

I shiver as he strokes me lightly, experimentally. His touch is uncertain but not timid, and he gets the hang of it in no time. He rakes his nails over my dick, and I swear I whimper, but I can't quite hear myself over the rush of blood in my ears.

He chuckles as he does it again, his smile reaching his eyes. I love this carefree look on him, I would let him tease me forever if that was the result. I pull him in for a kiss to keep myself from saying anything I might regret and he tastes like chocolate.

"Make that sound again," he says, trailing sucking kisses down my neck. I want to warn him about leaving marks, but I don't.

I'm about to tell him to make me, but he twists his hand in just the right way and I'm making, if not that sound, then another one that he seems just as interested in. In no time, I'm panting and my muscles are shaking, my hips rising up to meet his hand.

"Punk," I warn breathlessly. "I'm gonna… If you don't want to…"

He doesn't pull away. "Do it," he says. "Come for me."

It's all I need. My whole body tenses, and he doesn't pull away as I release into his hand, collapse against the sofa bonelessly, blissed. I'm aware, faintly, of Punk pulling his hand out of my shorts, wiping it on my shirt. I look at him through hooded eyes, and nothing has ever seemed so beautiful to me in my life. I feel all these things and I want to tell him each one of them.

I don't know what he reads in my eyes, but he shakes his head, then kisses me softly, scoots in and tucks his head against my shoulder. "This is just the beginning, John," he whispers into the crook of my neck.

I hold him close and try not to think about how things might turn out, because he's right, we can't control it, I can only ruin what we have now by worrying about the future. But I refuse to believe he's right, that every story has to end. Maybe I don't know exactly what I want, but I refuse to give up on him. I refuse to accept we can't have everything.


	6. Tampa - Day Three (Evening)

**Note:** I realize it's been two weeks and I lose again. I did warn you all that I'm ambivalent about this story, though, right? Anyway, I posted not one, but _two_ one shots. One of them was Punk/Cena. It is called "Out Of Control" and I'm not sure where it came from at all. I hate to beg for reviews, but I'd love any kind of feedback for that. It's new and different for me? Read the headers, see if it's your kind of thing.

* * *

**Tampa, Florida  
Day Three: Thursday (Evening)**

Time flies, and before I know it, it's nearly six and we're standing in the front hallway, waiting for the limo to show up. For the first time in a long time, I wish I didn't have to leave, that I could just stay here with Punk for at least another week, and I'm so grateful to him for making my home a place I want to stay, rather than one I try to avoid.

I look over at him and think of how much closer we've become since we arrived. Just two days ago, I would've been uncomfortable standing here, not talking, with him, unable to handle the crushing expectation. Pretty much nothing about this trip turned out the way I planned, but I wouldn't change a second of it. I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. I watch him scroll through his twitter feed for a few minutes, read some of the ridiculous comments people send his way, before he clicks his phone off and drops it in his pocket.

"I'll miss you," I say. His responds by leaning back against me, covering my hand with his. He doesn't tell me I'm being ridiculous.

A large part of me feels like I _am_ being ridiculous. We're taking the same limo, going to the same airport, getting on the same flight. We'll be working the same shows. But despite that, it won't be the same. We'll both be so busy that we barely have time to see each other, and even when we do, there will be eyes on us practically all the time. I survived on stolen moments before, but I have no idea how I'll manage now, now that I'm used to having him around all the time.

I tighten my arms around him, lean my chin on his shoulder. He practically forced me out of the house earlier, told me to go to the gym and clear my head, when I would rather have just held him in my arms for the rest of the time we has left. He was right, it made me feel a lot better, but by the time I got home, two hours later, I already missed him like crazy. I would've pulled him right back into my bed, but he'd already washed the sheets and remade it and I couldn't ruin all that work.

We spent the rest of the afternoon down by the pond, sitting on my patio in plastic deck chairs. Every now and then, we'd fool ourselves into thinking that we were completely alone out there, that nobody could possibly be watching, and hold hands or exchange quick kisses. I read one of his Walking Dead books while he watched videos on his phone and interrupted me to show me the ones he thought were funny. We did nothing and we talked about nothing, and it was perfect.

After a minute, he turns around in my arms and loops his around my waist, returning the embrace. "It'll be fine," he murmurs. "It'll be good."

I'm not sure if he's telling me that or trying to convince himself, but I'm confused, because I thought we were finally on the same page. He said he wanted to be with me, that he wanted us to be together, so how could he be fine with being apart?

He pulls back enough to look me in the eye. "John," he says reprovingly. I frown at him. He rises up on his toes and kisses my wrinkled forehead. "You worry too much."

An apology threatens to tumble from my lips, but I push it down. "I'm no good at this," I tell him. "I just want to do things right."

"I know," he says. "So do I. And that's why this will be good. We'll have more time to think about it. We'll be less likely to fuck it all up on a whim. Okay?"

The fact that he has a point doesn't make me want to be with him less, but I nod anyway. I came here with an idea of what was going to happen, a notion of what I wanted from him, and that was all torn to shreds. Maybe we do need some time and space to sort it all out. But at the same time, it feels almost like he's breaking up with me, and I just can't handle the thought.

"Okay," I agree, choking back nascent panic. "But we're still…?" I can't even say the words.

He shakes his head at me. "Yes, John," he says as though I were simple. "We're still." He wraps his arms around my neck, pulls me in so our foreheads are touching. "And I will miss you," he adds softly. "So fucking much."

It's all I can do not to drag him upstairs with me, forget my freshly clean sheets, forget the limo, forget the shows we have to work. Forget the promise I made to take things slow.

"Punk," I say with a groan. My arms tighten around his waist. He's definitely right, some space would do me a world of good right about now.

He strokes the back of my neck with his thumbs. "You can call me by my name, you know," he says, his voice casual, like it's no big deal. I can hear the deliberate edge to it, though.

I tilt my head and kiss him. His lips are soft and warm, except for the initial bite of cold metal that is his lip ring. I suck it into my mouth for a second, run my tongue over it before letting it go. I love him because of this, not in spite of it. He is Punk to me, with all that means, but he's more, too.

I look into his eyes, and I see anxiety lurking in their depths. "Phil," I say slowly, testing it out. I'm rewarded with an approving smile. I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs. "I don't know how I'm going to last until I can get you back here."

His smile disappears, to be replaced by a thoughtful look. I'm not sure what I've said wrong. I just assumed he would want to come back, but maybe he meant he needed more time than that.

"I had a really good time here, John," he says. "I'm glad I came. I'm okay with everything that happened."

"I hear a 'but' coming," I say. As reassuring as his words were, I steel myself for the worst. But he's not ready for the steps we might take if we do this again. But he doesn't want to go farther at all.

He sucks in a breath, winces slightly. "But I really do hate Tampa."

I sigh in relief. "That's all? I'll take you anyplace you want. Just tell me where." Right now, I'd probably move someplace else if he wanted it.

He moves his hands from around my neck, rests them on my chest. He studies me for what seems like a long time. "You can come to my place," he says finally.

He throws it out casually, as if it's not really a question, as if it's not a big deal, but I know it is. I've seen how few people he truly invites into his life, and to know that I'm becoming one of them is humbling.

"I'd love to," I tell him, giving the invitation the weight and gravity it deserves. We spend the next few minutes just looking at each other. What's between us seems like such a fragile thing in moments like this, but so much more real at the same time.

I get the call that the car is almost here, and we spend our last few minutes discussing details. We're about to enter a three week push towards Summerslam, and everything will be frantic until it's over and we can get away. He reminds me that we'll have moments before then, scattered and few as they may be, but the thought still makes me feel frantic.

We kiss one last time, and I let go of him reluctantly so we can grab our luggage and head out to the driveway. The ride to the airport is quiet as we both try to reconcile ourselves to the fact that the trip is over.

People recognize me in the airport as they almost always do and I sign autographs and take pictures on autopilot. When I look up, I realize that Punk isn't anywhere to be seen. I know how he hates this kind of thing, and I'm not sure if we're ready to take a chance on being seen together in public outside of a WWE city just yet, so I don't look for him or call him, I just go about checking myself in.

I don't see him again until a couple hours later, when I'm settled on the plane and he sits down in the aisle seat next to me. The first class cabin is still mostly empty, but I lower my voice as I speak.

"You disappeared," I say.

He pulls out his headphones and stuffs his bag under the seat in front of him before answering. "Your fans make me claustrophobic."

I stare at him, suddenly irritated. "If you don't want to be seen with me, you can just say it.' It's an accusation, despite the fact that I had the same exact thought earlier.

"I don't want to be seen with you," he returns without any hesitation. I have absolutely no reason to be surprised. He's not the kind of guy to shy away from things, or beat around the bush.

He puts on his headphones and ignores me until after the plane takes off. When we reach cruising altitude, he bends over to dig through his backpack. His shirt rides up as he leans over and his elbow digs into my calf as he rummages. He doesn't even try not to.

He finally pulls out a book, and when he sits up, he drops it in my lap. I frown at him, but he's not looking at me. I finally look down at the book I'm holding in my hands and I see that it's a copy of _50 Shades of Grey_. I draw a blank for a full minute, but I can't see him just buying this randomly, so I search my memory until I remember a hastily worded tweet at AJ Lee from a few days ago. I laugh uncomfortably and I look over at him again.

Our eyes connect for a second and I can feel the tension between us melt. He reaches across the armrest and I take his hand in mine, twine my fingers through his. He looks away, back in his own world, but I feel reassured by the connection between us, even when he pulls his hand away after a minute, and even more by the thought that he was thinking of me while we weren't together.

I start reading the book out of boredom and, eventually, he falls asleep on my shoulder. I fish his phone out of his pocket and turn off his music. I let him stay where he is, despite how it might look, despite the fact that after a while, he starts drooling on me.

We part ways in Charlotte to make separate connections, and when I finally arrive at a hotel room somewhere in West Virginia, I'm exhausted and lonely for him. I want to call him, but I don't want to look desperate, and there's always the chance that he's still in the air, so I decide to unpack first. I put my suitcase on my bed and open it. Then I just stand there and blink in disbelief.

With all that's happened, I forgot that I didn't pack my own suitcase, that Punk did my laundry and packed it for me while I was out at the gym. Despite the antsy, out-of-control feeling it gave me, I decided not to double check, and now I'm surprised to see a bag of truffles perched on top of my neatly folded clothes.

There's a note attached to the bag, and I unfold it slowly. "Don't be a glutton," it reads in his sloppy script. I feel like laughing and crying at the same time.

I tape the note to the inside cover of _50 Shades _and drop it on the night table. I change into my pajamas, imagining him standing barefoot in my laundry room, music blasting as he folded my clothes. Finding a pen and holding the cap in his teeth as he jotted down something for me to discover later. It's going to be a long three weeks.


End file.
